“I made it,” she announces.
I exaggerate the smile on my face so she sees how excited I am. I’ve never had anyone make something for me, other than a meal and an engine block, that is. Whatever’s inside this paper is precious.
“Open it,” she commands. I follow orders and unfold the yellow piece of construction paper. Inside is an oblong-shaped purple blob with four smaller purple blobs sort of attached to the bottom.
“That’s your car,” Hannah explains.
I nod.
“Ah, yes. I see it.” We both shake with silent laughter because it looks like a big scribble. I love it anyway.
Floating above the “car” is a stick figure with a line drawn through what I think is the head.
“Hat,” Bristol says, pointing to the line. I nod, getting the idea that this is me.
“My hat?” I question.
She looks up at me with a toothy grin and nods.
Around the entire thing is a circle that dips in the middle at the top. I think it’s a heart, so I ask Bristol to be sure.
“Is that a heart?” I trace my finger along the line.
“Yep. Cuz I love you.” She reaches around my waist and squeezes me with her tiny arms and I blink away the sneaky bastard tears that hit my eyes with the speed of lightning.
“Oh, wow. Thanks, baby girl. I . . . I love you, too.” I blink through the emotion that is rendering me absolutely breathless and meet Hannah’s eyes, which are tear-filled too.
I wrap my arms around Bristol and kiss the top of her head, wishing I could stay right here instead of getting on that damn plane. My eyes peer up over our daughter’s head to Hannah.
“I love you, too,” she mouths. It’s the final straw that ruins me. I nod and squeeze my eyes shut hard.
This—my entire life—fits in two airport chairs and my arms. This is all I need.
I sniffle as Bristol pulls away, and I suck in a harsh breath to right my head so I can get on my flight and focus on the days ahead. I give one more look at my special drawing then fold it up and tuck it into the side pocket of my carry-on.
“I’ve gotta board,” I say, reaching forward so my fingers twine with Hannah’s as she stands.
“I know.” Her mouth is caught between smiling and sobbing, and it’s the perfect representation of how I feel right this second.
“Come here,” I say, tugging her toward me. I hold the side of her face and bring our mouths together, kissing her and sucking in her bottom lip, holding on to it because I like the way it trembles against me. My hand moves to the back of her head and our foreheads touch as my eyes close.
“I love you, too.” I drop a kiss on her forehead and turn, taking long strides toward the boarding zone. If I don’t go and go now, I won’t make it. My pull to stay home grows stronger with every breath.
I hold out my phone for the agent to scan my digital boarding pass and march through the gate down the jetway, not stopping until I reach the very end, right before I board the plane. I turn because I have to, because I need one more look before I go. Bristol is on her mom’s hip, and the two of them are waving. I hold up my hand and Bristol blows me a kiss. I pretend to catch it and hold it against my chest. I keep it there for the duration of the flight.
From the moment I touch down in Dallas, the race becomes everything. This is the other reason I didn’t want Hannah and Bristol to be here. Race week is manic, my schedule filled with obligations to my sponsors and the press, plus qualifiers and practice laps. It’s overwhelming on its own, and if my girls were here, I would be too distracted to give them the attention they deserve.
There’s also a new element at this race, and it’s not my renewed passion for winning no matter the cost. This distraction comes in the form of a sleekly wrapped black and gold Toyota sponsored by Luka Oil. That company was a front for Alex’s father for years so I’ve done my homework. While he doesn’t own it anymore, the coincidence that a new driver, Quin Bastion, is on the circuit in a car tied, even loosely, to my nemesis is worthy of my attention. And my caution.
Tommy’s been keeping tabs on the kid’s results, and his times—they’re impressive.
“He’s a fluke,” my best friend says, obviously aware of what’s on my mind this morning. I’ve been thinking for days now about the hotshot twenty-two-year-old who seems to have come out of nowhere. It’s nearly all I think about.
“Probably. Yeah.” Tommy’s gotten used to my automatic response and rolls his eyes.
“Whatever, man. I can’t convince you so just lap him tomorrow and you’ll get over it.” Tommy empties the rest of the coffee from the hauler kitchen into his thermos and slides the empty pot across the table to me.
“Pots empty, rookie,” he teases on his way out.
“Fucker,” I mutter to myself. I get busy brewing a new pot, wondering if any of the drivers on the leader board have to brew their own coffee. I suppose I should thank my friend for keeping me humble.
There’s a rap on the hauler door while I’m dropping in the grounds, so I look over my shoulder and shout, “Come on in.” Dale pulls the door open and steps into the small space to join me. I invited him along for this race so he could get a better story. But I also need him as my safety net should something not go as planned. I thought this through my entire flight here, and I’ve lain awake the last two nights writing everything down and sealing it in this envelope. It might be stupid to gamble on a guy from the press to keep his word and act honorably, but I have a feeling about Dale. I think he’s a good guy, as in to his core.
“You said you had some info for me, for the story?”
I nod toward the small banquette by the door.
“Yeah, take a seat. Want some? I’m making it fresh.” I hold up the pot before pouring the water into the maker.
Dale chuckles and pulls a notebook from his back pocket, clicking his pen and scribbling something on a blank page.
“Dustin Bridges makes his own coffee.” He plops the period in place with a flourish and flips the notebook closed while I laugh.
“That’s a good lead. You should go with that,” I say.
His eyes squint and his mouth twists.
“Maybe I will,” he responds.
Once the brew is going, I hold up a finger and head to the lockers on the other end of the hauler where I’ve stashed my things. I reach inside my leather bag and pull out the yellow envelope that’s thick with details, all of them. I made a copy last night at the FedEx down the road. Poor teenaged worker had to help me. I can drive a half-mile loop at two-hundred miles per hour, but I can’t work a damn Xerox machine. I wanted the backup in case; I’ll give it to Tommy before the race. It feels morbid to have your demise penned out for posterity, but I can’t shake the feeling it’s also responsible to do so.
I walk back to the kitchen area and toss the envelope on the table in front of Dale.
“What’s this?” He lifts it and begins to pick at the seal.
“Ah ah. You cannot open that until the race is done. That’s the deal.”
He cocks his head, his finger frozen in place, nail dug under the seam while he reads my face, probably deciding how much of this is bullshit.
“It’s important,” I add.